


Annum

by doozerdoodles



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull Holiday Exchange, Big Emotional Confession at a Holiday Party, Break Up, Dramedy, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Holidays, Humor, M/M, Modern AU, Pining, Romance, sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 01:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5648644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doozerdoodles/pseuds/doozerdoodles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A gift for the incredibly talented sometrashland via the Adoribull Holiday Exchange whose original prompt was: "Established relationship, humor, aftercare, pining, modern AU... all the things actually..."</p><p>So I tried to do all the things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Annum

_Most of the common Yuletide traditions stem from the Southern Chantry’s_ Satinalia _feasts, though parts of the world still embrace the more raucous festivities historically practiced in Antiva and the North. In modern Tevinter, it is not unheard of for high society to throw gala events in the spirit of the old Imperium, but food and gift giving remain the staple activities of Yuletide across modern Thedas and even the Avvar Territories._

 

*

 

“Holy shit,” Bull muttered, “Santa _is_ real.”

 

To his credit, Krem only slightly choked on his mulled wine. It wasn’t the weirdest thing Bull had said to him, probably not even that day. Still, the quiet awe in Bull’s tone sounded a precursor to some kind of trouble. Krem squinted sidelong up at him.

 

“How do you figure, chief?”

 

“He got my letter,” Bull said, with the intensity that was typically reserved for the Herald’s Rest on a rowdy Saturday, when the pub’s usual rock and regulars were replaced with EDM and an influx of revellers. Given that they were presently standing in the cozy, cheerful living room of a friend’s flat on Yuletide, Bull’s _Target Locked_ face was a little jarring. Also, the smile was off. It was uneven on one side, bordering on dopey. Krem followed Bull’s gaze across the room, past Sera determinedly attempting to staple sprigs of mistletoe to anything she could, to the doorway where Lissar Lavellan was brushing snow from her scarf and smiling at the handsome man she had in tow-

 

Who was Tevinter. Krem straightened up a bit. Lavellan was as good as Bull at finding strays, but the posh looking bastard she had with her now was a stretch.  The nose, the moustache, the _rings_ : That was an Altus. How in the hallowed halls of the old gods had she dug up an Altus in the South and convinced him to go to a Yule party?

 

“You greedy bastard, chief,” Krem said. “You’ve already got a handsome ‘Vint around.”

 

“But this one has a fancy moustache,” Bull said, not turning his gaze away as he reached past Krem to ladle two mismatched mugs full of party punch. It smelled of cloves and spiced wine and cinnamon. There were lots of little concessions to the older Satinalia traditions around, and Josephine was Antivan, after all. Even the hot chocolate was spiced. Bull loved the parties at Josie’s place.

 

“Chief,” Krem warned, finally drawing Bull’s attention. “Watch yourself.”

 

“Come on, Liss brought him. To a party where the only people from the North are a qunari, a mouthy enemy of the state, and a surly elf who hates ‘Vints. She wouldn’t have if she was really concerned.”

 

“Mmn,” Krem intoned skeptically.

 

“And he’s so pretty,” Bull muttered, gaze firmly back on the aristocratic young man who was reluctantly parting with his expensive looking coat. He wore a dark green cardigan over a bone colored button down. It all looked tailored. Krem humphed and Bull made for the foyer.

 

“Bull!” Lissar enthused, haphazardly dropping her parka on the banister and darting out of the entryway to throw her arms around him as far as they would go, which wasn’t very. He chuckled and returned the gesture with one forearm, mindful of the drinks he carried.

 

“Was wondering when you’d turn up, get the party started.”

 

She grinned at him as she pulled back, her typical sharp wryness tempered to something warmer. Chalk it up to holiday cheer, Bull thought, unless, of course, the flashy ‘Vint was the cause. That would be mildly disappointing.

 

“I had to make a detour. Bull, this is Dorian Pavus, most recently of Minrathous,” she said, stepping back and gesturing, giving Bull license to get a good look. Up close, he- Dorian- was even more striking: Dusky gold skin reflecting the twinkle lights, grey eyes catching the green of the tree and reflecting it back. His mouth was the sort people wrote sonnets about, his profile the type most commonly found hewn from marble. He looked vaguely stricken, and wrenched his gaze up from Bull’s sweater-clad chest to meet his eye, without altering his expression at all.

 

“Dorian,” Lissar said, touching his elbow (like a friend, not a lover, Bull noted), “this is the Iron Bull.”

 

“That can’t possibly be your legal name,” Dorian stated, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly. His voice was rich, and the confident lilt made Bull grin all the more.

 

“Sure is. I got to choose it myself. Most people say it suits me.”

 

“ _Do_ they?” Dorian murmured. His eyebrow stayed put, but the corner of his mouth tugged up to match it, and the resulting expression gave Bull hope. Dorian was reluctantly charmed. Bull could work with that.

 

“Good,” Lissar declared, looking them both over and seeming satisfied, before turning to a chorus of _Liss!_ and continuing with her hellos. Dorian tensed as he watched her drift away, so Bull held one cup in his line of sight.

 

“Warm drink?” he asked, enjoying how Dorian’s eyes widened before his composure slipped back into place, and he took the cup from Bull’s hand.

 

“Is it alcoholic?”

 

“Very.”

 

“Then yes, thank you. Oh,” Dorian sighed, stopping with the rim of the cup just beneath his lips, eyes shut as he inhaled. “Do you know, I think these may be the first spices I’ve encountered since arriving in this miserable tundra?”

 

“Ha! Yeah, you get used to the cold eventually-” Dorian grimaced at Bull as he took a sip, “-but Southern food is definitely lacking in the spice department.”

 

“You’ve been here long, then?” Dorian asked, settling into the posture of one who was quite adept at holding conversations at cocktail parties. There was a tilt in his hips that accentuated just how well his dark blue jeans fit. Nothing about him gave any indication he was uncomfortable, even though he had to’ve been. Points to Dorian’s poker face, Bull thought, _or_ he wasn’t as racist as Krem had made his uppercrust former countrymen out to be. Bull hoped for the latter.

 

“Going on seven years. I take it you’re a little more…” He glanced Dorian over, couldn’t help himself, eye catching on little details and cataloging them, wanting badly to suss out more. “...new.”

 

 _Rein it in_ , Bull thought, _don’t throw the seduction voice at him in the first five minutes_.

 

He needn’t have worried, as _seduction_ was not actually what Dorian got from his tone.

 

Dorian tilted his chin up into the scrutiny, vaguely challenging. Not that he wasn’t _used_ to close observation, though it was usually a bit subtler (he suspected _the Iron Bull_ did not really do _subtle_ ). There was a warmth and familiarity in Bull’s manner of speech that made him feel off-kilter, something Dorian never enjoyed.

 

“Yes, I- suppose I am.”

 

“Are you freaked out?” Bull asked, and Dorian scowled outright.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“You know.” Bull gestured with his free hand upward and side to side, as if to encompass his horns. “It’s okay if you’re a little freaked out.”

 

“I am not _‘freaked out’_ ,” Dorian snapped. “You’re hardly the first qunari I’ve ever met. I’m not a _rube_.”

 

“That,” Bull laughed, “is probably the last thing anyone would think to call you. It’s all right, but if you were, I’d get it. For some people it’s a lot; the horns, the eyepatch-”

 

“The jumper?” Dorian drawled, imperiously enough that the word didn’t sound ridiculous coming out of his mouth. To be fair, few things did. Bull blinked.

 

“What?”

 

“The hideous crocheted nightmare stretched near to shreds across your chest,” Dorian said, eying the places the pattern was stressed by the sheer expanse it was struggling to cover, before reminding himself it wouldn’t do to stare. He met Bull’s faux-wounded expression with a blithe one of his own.

 

Bull couldn’t help but notice Dorian’s cup was emptier than it had been a minute ago, more than Bull would have expected. Duly noted.

 

“Hey, it’s festive,” Bull protested.

 

“It’s a pattern of nugs in hats, and snowflakes.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“In _magenta_ , which isn’t even a color of the season!”

 

“Magenta works in _every_ season,” Bull said, and Dorian sneered handsomely, giving Bull’s chest one more sidelong look and a shake of his head. One thick, short wave of dark brown hair brushed Dorian’s temple as he did so. Bull wanted to touch it.

 

“I knew the South was barbarous, but I can’t say I expected-”

 

“Bull, stop flexing at Dorian, I need to introduce him to other people!” Lissar’s voice effectively cut off Dorian’s barb, and the man glanced briefly over Bull’s chest again before clearing his throat and meeting his eye, and nodding, then went to join Lissar and make introductions.

 

Bull absently rubbed at his jaw, gaze fixed. There was something to him, the ‘Vint. Bull had a hunch, was good with hunches. He was right a lot of the time. He didn’t acknowledge Krem and Skinner as they sidled up next to him, until Skinner stabbed him with a plastic cocktail sword.

 

“Chief,” she said, a million shades of disapproval coloring the word.

 

“All right, so,” Krem said, “everything I said about Alti are true, he’s a prick, we can start drinking in earnest now and move on, right? Chief? Right, Chief?”

 

He glanced at Skinner and found her wary expression mirrored Krem’s own. Bull shook his head slowly.

 

“I don’t know. There’s something about him.”

 

“Oh, no,” Krem muttered.

 

As far as traditional Satinalia’s went, Josephine’s gathering was tame. Held up against her neighbors’ Yule parties, it was a barn burner. More friends filtered in through the evening, the house becoming fuller, noisier, warmer. Festive sweaters were discarded, ice buckets refilled. Bull kept his distance, watching Dorian flit from group to group, taken by the elbow in turn by Lissar or Varric. The ‘Vint held his own in whichever conversation he was shunted into, even managed to wring a faint, grudging smile and a huff of a laugh out of Cassandra.

 

Twice he glanced around the room and inadvertently made eye contact with Bull. The connection was fleeting, but not hastily broken. Both times Bull managed a twitch of a smile before Dorian looked away again.

 

Promising.

 

The clock was winding toward midnight before Bull found another opening to approach him alone. There had been moments of overlapping conversations, jokes shouted across the room, enough that Bull hoped it wouldn’t seem too aggressive, stepping out onto the back porch where Dorian was standing. A pilfered throw blanket was wound around his shoulders. He was looking at the sky.

 

“Not a lot of stars this close to the city,” Bull said, stepping quietly out and sliding the glass door shut behind him. Dorian didn’t startle, merely glanced back over his shoulder.

 

“Mmn. Quite a lot of snow, however.”

 

It was barely a flurry, sparse flakes drifting silently down out of the dark.  Bull tilted his head up to watch them catch the light.

 

“This is nothing, give it a month.”

 

“Please be joking,” Dorian muttered, tugging the blanket closer. He resembled nothing so much as a small exotic bird puffing itself up against the chill, and it made Bull smile.

 

“Not really, but don’t worry, Fereldans have come up with plenty of ways to keep warm."

 

Dorian turned such a balefully unimpressed glower toward him that Bull actually took a half step back, though he also laughed.

 

“ _Really_.”

 

“Hey, I’m not the one with my mind in the gutter. I meant the heated walkways between buildings and USB powered hand warmers. Pretty sure what you’re imagining is an activity shared across cultures.” His voice dipped in register, deliberately-worded sentence rounding out as more of a purr than actual voice. Dorian flushed, the red ghosting across his cheeks and the tips of his ears in a way that complemented his skin. Bull itched to see how far down that flush went.

 

“Well. I. Hmmn.” Dorian’s mustache twitched, giving away his smile. “Aren’t you the clever one.”

 

“Don’t tell anyone, I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

 

“Do you, now?” Dorian mused, and the gaze he cast over Bull, head to toe, was not merely appraising but keen, knowing. “I’ll consider myself warned.”

 

A red flag went up in Bull’s mind. Beautiful, poised, cultured, interested but wary. Dorian had been burned. Not to mention a lone, posh Tevinter, brought to a holiday event and introduced to every soul there with nary a mention of his own friends or family the entire night. Bull thought of Krem, five years ago, what he’d run from; and of Lissar’s unswerving ability to single out and befriend the most damaged, loneliest souls. It was a bad idea, getting protective over a defensive, barbed tongued, beautiful ‘Vint stranger, but Bull figured he’d had worse.

 

Dorian, being in fact both defensive and barbed tongued, wasn’t pleased by the soft consideration settling over Bull’s face. He was a stranger in a strange land, perhaps, but he wasn’t fragile, or lost. He knew damn well where he was, and why, and, increasingly, to whom he was speaking. Bull _was_ clever, though, and must have read the defensiveness in Dorian’s posture, and rather than retreating he stepped forward until they stood abreast.

 

“Well, I’m definitely not trying to warn you off,” Bull rumbled, flashing Dorian a warm smile.

 

“That jumper says differently.”

 

“Krem’s girlfriend is playing a local club on Sunday. If you want, you’re welcome to join us. I’ll buy you a drink and wear a different sweater.” Dorian’s facade faltered, and he looked up at Bull with barely suppressed surprised.

 

“That… sounds as though it would qualify as a ‘date’.”

 

“Doesn’t have to be,” Bull shrugged, “you’re funny, interesting, and new in town. I’d like to get to know you.”

 

Though he remained perfectly still, Dorian was blatantly flustered.

 

“And if it were one?” he asked, an uncertain frown tugging at his brow. “A-”

 

“Date?” Bull supplied, grinning more. “Probably the same evening with some additional bad puns thrown in. I’d bet money you’ve got a thing for bad puns.”

 

“You would lose that bet,” Dorian said reflexively. “You’re-” He glanced behind them at the glass door and windows, the glow from the kitchen beyond them. No one seemed to be aware of the pair of them out on the deck; certainly no one was scandalized by it, if they were.

 

“Honestly, Iron Bull, you’re incredibly forward.” Dorian didn’t actually sound displeased. Bull shifted a half step so they stood facing each other.

 

“You’re not the first to say so. Don’t see much point in being coy.”

 

“Yes, somehow you playing the coquette doesn’t entirely compute,” Dorian mumbled, earning a chuckle from Bull.

 

“You cold?” Bull asked, lifting a hand to rearrange the fold of the blanket a little higher around Dorian’s ears. The shift in proximity seemed abrupt, but only because Bull was so _massive._ Dorian watched Bull’s hands, aware of their breadth, and only by the threat of sheer mortification managed not to lean into them.

 

“Freezing.”

 

“Should go back inside,” Bull suggested easily. Everything about him, from his posture to the way he flirted, was easy, warm, and so deeply appealing Dorian found himself desperately unnerved.

 

“Yes,” he said, distracted by the way the glow of the lights lining the windows cast shadow across Bull’s face. So close up, the scar across his lip looked deeper than it had inside. Dorian wondered-

 

Well, Dorian wondered.

 

Then Dorian recoiled, feeling the cold impact of snow piled on a railing hit his back before he’d quite realized he’d even moved. Bull remained precisely where he was, hands lifted as though in supplication. No, Dorian realized, that was a lifetime of being steeped in _the classics_ talking. Bull’s posture was purely placating, nonthreatening. Dorian felt abruptly ashamed.

 

“Sorry,” Bull said. “I’m sorry, Dorian. I shouldn’t have- I misread that. Totally on me.”

 

Bull rarely made such mistakes. He did a quick mental rundown of how many drinks he’d had, of any possible factors that could have contributed to him stepping in it that bad. Dorian was entrancing, sure, alluring in a way Bull couldn’t remember finding anyone in a long, long time, but he spent plenty of time around perfectly attractive people without ever crossing a physical line or making them uncomfortable. It didn’t feel good, to have managed doing both to Dorian in the span of a few minutes. The ‘Vint looked half spooked and guilt twisted hard in Bull’s gut.

 

“...No,” Dorian said, straightening, “no, you…” He shook himself. Truthfully, Bull hadn’t misread a damned thing, except how capable Dorian was of behaving like a normal person, apparently. The misery showed in the set of his mouth. It showed everywhere, really. There had been such promise, for a moment, in the idea (however childish and naive) of making a _new friend_.

 

Let alone in the terrifying idea of agreeing to go on a date with a man who had asked him, with kindness and plain, unabashed interest. Dorian tugged the blanket a little closer around himself.

 

“...So I’ll tell Lissar about the club,” Bull said gently, breaking Dorian’s focus, drawing him outward again. He blinked owlishly up at Bull, whose heart did a weird, uncomfortable thing where it kind of ached and kind of fluttered at the same time.

 

Maybe he was getting the flu.

 

“The club?” Dorian echoed.

 

“Yeah. Maybe she can drive you guys, it’s in a kind of squirrely part of downtown, easy to get lost.” Dorian’s tension eased, though his hand stayed anchored like a vice over his elbow. It had been there since he’d drawn back, and Bull was certain Dorian had no idea.

 

The backyard was strangely still, everything gone muffled with the fresh snowfall. Sera’s laughter cut through the party, distinct but distant. Dorian shivered.

 

“If the invitation stands,” he said hesitantly, and Bull nodded once, with no hesitation at all.

 

“Of course it does.”

 

They were both quiet, breath curling out into the space between them as clouds and dissipating up into the cold.  Eventually Dorian smiled. It was brittle, Bull thought, but genuine. Lovely, though it hurt to look at.

 

“...All right,” Dorian said, “thank you. I’ll take a look at my social calendar.”

 

Bull laughed, and only barely had to force it. The wryness in the twist of Dorian’s lips was gratifying. The self-deprecation in his tone was not.

 

“You do that,” Bull said, and slid the glass door to the kitchen open.  He watched Dorian as the warm light from the kitchen lit his profile, and then the ‘Vint had slipped seamlessly back into the happy cluster of guests loitering by the stove. Beyond them, in the short hall that led to the parlor, Krem stood perfectly framed, expression a mask of _I Told You So._

 

“Awe, shit,” Bull muttered, and went back inside.

 

*

 

_As the world transitioned to a modern workaday schedule, so Firstday transitioned to the ubiquitously celebrated New Year’s Eve. While some provinces in Orlais are still known for the first of Wintermarch being a day of revelry, where offices and banks are closed, the rest of the world has shifted in the last age to celebrating the night before: Bidding farewell to the final hours of the previous year with drinking and noisemaking and welcoming the start of the new year with hangovers and half days._

 

*

 

There had been two weeks in fall when Bull and Dorian seemed to run into each other every time they turned around. They didn’t live far apart, it turned out, though they were more likely to see each other in transit, on transit, or at specialty grocery stores than they were simply walking the streets of the burrough. The few friends Dorian had secured were, oddly enough, the same ones who tended to latch onto the Chargers when they had a night out, and so Dorian was dragged along not infrequently. The rest of Dorian’s friends (not that there were many) were all part of the university system, and acquaintances through those channels, but they didn’t seem quite as adept as forcing Dorian into after-hours social situations as Sera or Lissar did. Bull was, as a rule, enthusiastic about after-hours socializing. Adding Dorian to the mix just made him more so. As Dorian settled into a routine and a life in his newly adopted country, however, nights out became increasingly scarce.

 

They hadn’t seen each other for nine days when Bull walked into Skyhold and immediately spotted the ‘Vint on the balcony across the room. The hotel was the type of grandiose Dorian probably felt most at home in- severely deco, entirely stone, vaulted _everything_ , and just exclusive enough that, if not for Leliana’s connections, not a one of them would have been allowed inside. Fortunately, Leliana _did_ have connections, and knew exactly who to invite to a party if you wanted people talking about the right things.

 

Bull caught a flute of champagne off a passing tray and meandered around the room, saying hello to friends and a few strangers. Leliana’d been quite clear about wanting him to mingle, so mingle he did. His years with the Ben-Hassrath might have been over, and he hadn’t touched an active war zone in over a decade, but certain skills were never going to leave him; and if he could offer those skills to Leliana at some schmancy shindig to be utilized in corporate espionage, well, it gave him a reason to dress up. It also gave him a chance to observe Dorian in the wild. They’d spent plenty of nights at clubs and restaurants but never one so upscale. Bull had never seen Dorian in a tux, for example. The inky, dark blue shawl collared number he was presently wearing, buttoned neatly and with nary a crease even as he reclined against the balcony rail, was flawless. He was wearing earrings, simple silver studs, unobtrusive but determinedly catching the light at every angle. He smirked at something someone said, a taller man with close cropped hair, nearly buzzed, who stood with his back to the room. Dorian was a champion smirker, but for this one he managed to make the curve of his mouth vaguely disdainful. Then, like quicksilver, his expression warmed and opened and he laughed, genuinely. Lissar’s profile slipped into Bull’s view, and she was grinning, pleased to have gotten such a response from their polished, guarded friend.

 

Something eased in Bull’s gut, something he hadn’t noticed tightening up to begin with. _Shit_ , he thought, and made his way to towering etched-glass doors that opened to the view of the city and framed Bull’s view of his friends.

 

Whoever the buzzcut was, Bull stopped caring when Dorian tilted his head away and his gaze landed on Bull. The pure unguarded startlement warmed Bull right down to his toes.

 

“Figures I’d find the cool kids smoking on the fire escape,” Bull grinned, and Lissar laughed as she went to hug him in greeting.

 

“Dorian,” Bull nodded as Lissar stepped back, absently tugging one strap of her sequined dress higher up her shoulder, pointedly making sure the space between Bull and Dorian was clear. Lips pressed together, smile barely smothered, she turned to make a show of flagging down some waitstaff to conjure fresh drinks for them. Dorian seemed glued to the spot, and cleared his throat with some visible effort, which Bull knew meant it was a real struggle.

 

“That’s… a particularly vivid shade of ultramarine, isn’t it?”

 

“Most people call it purple, Dorian.”

 

“Tell me it’s not velvet.”

 

“I would never lie to you.”

“Ye gods,” Dorian mumbled. Purple was an understatement. Bull’s suit was rich, and soft, and made his skin look more silver than grey. The shirt Bull wore under it was unapologetically pink. Dorian’s eyes traversed the breadth and height of him, and he felt his mouth go dry.

 

Bull flirted the way Dorian complained: compulsively, but with enough skill and charm that no one was ever offended. He flirted with Dorian especially, even after the ass Dorian had made of himself the night they were first acquainted. It had been a strange sort of torture, waiting for Bull to make another move, to reference that Satinalia party, to give Dorian _any_ opening that didn’t require him to directly and plainly ( _inelegantly_ , Dorian always told himself) proposition the great lummox.  He wanted to. Badly. But Bull was a good friend in a circle of good friends, and an ill conceived dalliance threatened Dorian’s ability to count them all as such. So he allowed himself to imagine those conversational openings, even to imagine what could come of them, but he never attempted them himself. He was a bundle of nerves held together with pride, habit, and coffee. Bull didn’t need that inflicted on him.

 

If only he didn’t look so damn good.

 

“Nice tie,” Dorian said, and Bull grinned more broadly.

 

“Nice tux,” he replied.

 

“I have to say, I quite like the First Day celebrations down here. Really more Last Night celebrations. One great party and then on with the year.”

 

“They do love any excuse to dress to the nines and get wasted, these Southerners,” Bull agreed, and Dorian smiled.

 

“An affinity you seem to share,” Dorian chuckled. “There are worse traditions, I suppose.”

 

Bull leaned his forearms on the stone balustrade, looking out over the skyline. Dorian remained in repose against it beside him, a hair’s breadth away.

 

“Liss tell you about the countdown?”

 

“Yes! We were worried you might miss it, it’s only minutes away.”

 

“Not a chance,” Bull said, tilting his head to catch Dorian’s eye with his own. He smiled.

 

“The countdown’s not even the best part. The best part is when you hit zero.”

 

Dorian’s eyes narrowed in place of him asking for clarification, and Lissar was back before Bull’s smug, placid silence could prompt Dorian to action. She had a fresh glass for each of them and explained they were in no uncertain terms not to drink it until it was officially the new year. Dorian was indignant, but obeyed. The party’s volume increased to an anticipatory clamor, and the music was cut off abruptly as the first few awkward shouts of _Ten, nine,_ started up. By _seven_ , everyone was in sync.

 

Dorian cast a wary, droll look Bull’s way, joining in as they hit _six_ , but was distracted away again by people scuttling through the crowd to join, Dorian supposed, their closer friends. Everyone stood with their faces tilted up toward the large clock on the wall, and Dorian wondered briefly if it was actually going to _do_ something at the stroke of midnight. He glanced up at Bull, whose attention was on the crowd, until _two_ , when it was back on Dorian.

 

“One,” they both said, and the entire room erupted in confetti and cheers of _Happy New Year_! Dorian didn’t startle, but he did laugh, too pleasantly surprised even to fuss at the confetti now in his hair. Only then everyone started kissing each other and that startled him into quieting.

 

There was no hesitation anywhere to be seen. Friends caught each other round the neck and kissed cheeks, or planted overly enthusiastic and clearly platonic closed-mouth kisses over laughing mouths. Many were sincere: the sweeter, quieter kisses shared between couples. A few sloppier ones shared between people who were possibly only couples for the night. Sera was engaging in onesuch with a particularly pretty waitress. _Zero_ , Dorian thought, knowing this was what Bull had meant.

 

Lissar had gone first for Bull, surging easily up to plant one on the corner of his mouth, then did the same to Dorian. He caught her elbow and smiled into it, returning the gesture at the corner of hers, and she flashed him an exhilarated grin before squaring her shoulders and pushing through the crowd of partiers to tap a tall blond man on the back. The moment he turned, surprise lit up his features, and then Lissar was pulling his head down with both hands on his jaw to kiss him.

 

It all happened rather quickly.

 

“...I take it she knows him?” Dorian ventured. Bull laughed.

 

“That’s Cullen.”

 

“So _that’s-_ Ah. Well. Good to see her-” Dorian stopped himself, idiom at the tip of his tongue. Bull grinned slowly.

 

“Grabbing the bull by the horns?”

 

“Oh, _stop_ ,” Dorian muttered but, Bull noticed, he was smiling.

 

Bull lifted his glass of champagne to gently touch it to Dorian’s, and the delicate clink drew Dorian’s focus back up. There had been a moment where Dorian had seemed a bit lost, and Bull felt a powerful desire to keep that look from ever gracing that handsome face again.

 

“Happy New Year,” he said, and Dorian gave him a smile, a real one. It made the rest of the party seem further away, and the winter air on the balcony seem downright balmy.

 

“Happy New Year, Bull,” Dorian answered gratefully, drinking a substantial amount of the champagne in his flute, then hesitated, a shade of unease creeping into his posture. Bull leaned down and kissed him before Dorian could make a quip and retreat. Dorian tensed for the space of a breath before he was leaning into it, and Bull cupped a hand across the small of Dorian’s back, keeping it simple, light. They’d been dancing around the attraction- and Bull’s initial fumble- for two months, and still, Bull knew, to rush it, to push too much too quickly, would send Dorian running. It was easier to be patient (and celibate) than Bull would have anticipated, though.

 

He could tell Dorian was worth the wait.

 

The kiss was dry save for the wetness on Dorian’s lower lip from the champagne, and because Bull was a veteran spy who had never been broken by torture of any kind, he just barely managed not to chase after the taste with his tongue. Dorian didn’t ease back from the kiss with his usual laconic grace, either. He was a little stiff, seemed unbalanced, but he looked at Bull’s mouth _twice_ before maintaining eye contact, and Bull let himself curl his fingers against the extremely fine material of Dorian’s shirt before letting it drop.

 

Then Sera was there, new friend in tow, and then Lissar and the enigmatic Cullen were there, and Bull’s phone was blowing up in his pocket with, he had no doubt, Krem’s demands he leave Skyhold for the Herald’s Rest _at once_ . When he went, everyone went with him, including Dorian, and they took over the dive bar in style and drank until three. Dorian was back in form, effortlessly caustic and sincere in turns, at ease in a way that made Bull feel _good_ , about the world and where they’d seemed to land in it, and though they didn’t kiss again that night, they watched each other.

 

A lot.

*

 

_Of all the old traditions that mark the beginning of spring, it is strangely that of the Avvar’s gestures to their Ostresol, originally thought to be the goddess of the light (though historical record is scarce) which has maintained popularity in modern times. The element of fire has always been prevalent, from the elaborate carnivale performances of Antiva to the representative pyres of Nevarra, and even the stories of Qunari observances that required ‘unquenchable’ flames- the light has always been the point of Wintersend. Still, the Avvar’s bonfires and communal songs swept through Thedas as the perfect distillation of ceremony, and though they differ in form, remain the the most prevalent of Springtide festivals._

_*_

 

Spring in the South was quite different than at home. The shift from grey, cold misery to wet, sludgey misery that was at least slightly balmier and marked with the sudden appearance of color was much more dramatic, in a sense, than Tevinter’s shift from staid, arid winter into more humid spring. The celebration welcoming the warmer months was social and public, a far cry from the yearly galas Dorian had been subject to growing up, which took place in private residences and under considerable guard.

 

Street fairs had cropped up around the city in the days preceding the holiday. It was the first time in his three months of living there that Dorian found Fereldan actually reminding him of home. Stalls with wood or metal frames, draped with plastic tarps or heavy canvas, were erected in parks and on blocked off streets depending on the part of town. They ranged from farmer’s markets to local craftsmen and covered most everything in between, and Dorian found himself wandering them and hunting for trinkets he might give as gifts, and for any food that smelled properly spicey.

 

It was at a farmer’s market Dorian caught sight of a pair of horns so distinctive and familiar they made his heart leap in chest, and he chided himself for the fleeting urge to run.

 

“Bull!” he called, shouldering past some hagglers and hurrying around the corner of a stall selling a variety of local honeys, the first batch of the year. It wasn’t easy to lose a qunari in a crowd, especially not one of Bull’s size, yet Dorian seemed to have managed it. Unless Bull hadn’t been there at all, and his daydreams were graduating to hallucinations.

 

In all honesty, it wouldn’t have surprised him.

 

Disappointment and relief mingled through him and the line of his shoulders dropped. Being around Bull was a minefield on the best of days- not through any fault of Bull’s.

 

 _Still_ , Dorian thought, faced with a mingling crowd of friends and families and couples, all still bundled against the last of the winter chill but happy, meandering. Still, it wouldn’t have been so bad, to spend some time in Bull’s company, in this setting.

 

Crestfallen, he turned away to head back the way he’d come, and found a paper-wrapped sandwich of some kind directly in front of his face, pulling him up short.

 

It smelled of tamarind and cilantro and citrus, and being in proximity to it made his eyes water somewhat. He looked, surprised, from the offering to the hand which held it, then up to Bull’s grinning face, and Dorian felt himself smile in answer, no matter that he was trying to look vexed.

 

“Trying to sneak up on me?”

 

“Not hard,” Bull teased. “Had to get this before the guy sold out, he only makes so many a day.”

 

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” Dorian said, angling a haughty eyebrow at the street food. It smelled murderously good. Bull chuckled.

 

“Not big on sharing in Tevinter, huh?”

 

“That’s an unfounded stereotype,” Dorian balked. “I’ll have you know I’m bad at sharing because I’m an only child.”

 

“First bite’s yours, then,” Bull offered, and for a moment Dorian was sure this was going to end with him being mocked. He shot Bull a blatantly suspicious glance, then steadied the sandwich by resting one hand over Bull’s, and ducked his head to take a bite. He could not, for the life of him, stifle the noise of pleasure that moved through his throat. The sandwich was a flakey white fish crusted with spices, tucked into a perfect, salted, doughy flatbread, and cushioned on all sides with crisp, fresh vegetables and sauces he hadn’t been able to find in any shop south of the Tevinter border. He’d even attempted to recreate one or two in his apartment, to predictably disastrous results. This was heaven.

 

He dropped his hand from where it still rested over the back of Bull’s knuckles. Dorian hid his mouth with the back of his other, guiltless hand, surreptitiously using the feigned politeness to make sure nothing had caught in his moustache.

 

“That’s-” Dorian began, but stopped to give himself another moment to relish the flavors fully. Bull looked expectant, possibly ready to make fun.

 

“-truly fantastic,” Dorian finished, and Bull was inordinately pleased, which in turn pleased Dorian. It was a vicious feedback loop of idiocy. “Thank you, for the taste.”

 

He’d meant no innuendo or flirtation by it, but the words still seemed to affect Bull. It was a subtle shift- his eye more heavily lidded, the set of his smile softening, going uneven in that way that made Dorian wild with the urge to run his fingertips across Bull’s lips.

 

“Can have more than a taste,” Bull offered, the timbre of his voice sending a rolling warmth through Dorian that was as effective as the spices had been. “I don’t mind sharing.”

 

“No, I imagine you wouldn’t,” Dorian said, and Bull laughed. They passed the sandwich back and forth a few times as they fell into step beside each other, wandering through the stalls and catching up. What project were the Chargers working on, was Bull overseeing anything else, was Bull doing any fun, _special_ projects for Leliana, how was Dorian’s thaumotological research going, had his upstairs neighbor given up on learning the guitar between the hours of 11 pm and 3 am, and so on. Either the weather favored them, or the shared food had created some deeper bond between them, because Dorian found any potential landmines neatly stepped around or merely glanced over, and understood. It was the way of their conversations. Dorian was always walking a fine line, terrified in his core of revealing too much of himself, that Bull might finally see him for the hassle he was and pull away.

 

Instead, as the sun crept lower and the fledgling spring warmth faded entirely, Bull seemed to edge closer, until their arms brushed almost continuously as they walked.

 

Citygoers started gathering around the great metal braziers that had been erected in parks and squares. Dry branches were passed around. When the sky was dark enough, they would be lit, and then thrown into the braziers to create great, roaring bonfires. Dorian shivered. Thinking of the fire made him more aware of how damned cold he was.

 

“Did you have plans to meet anyone, for the bonfire?” Bull asked. “Liss likes to go to the one downtown, kind of a hike, but.” He shrugged.

 

Dorian shook his head and pushed his hands deeper into his coat pockets.

 

“No, I… it’s quite a nice festival, but I’d rather enjoy a fire indoors, behind a grate, where it belongs.”

 

“Doesn’t sound half bad. You got a fireplace in your apartment?”

 

“No, actually,” Dorian sighed, “They bricked it over some renovations back.”

  
“Ah, yeah, that happens,” Bull said. “...I’ve got a working fireplace.”

 

Dorian blinked up at Bull, who sounded almost _nervous_ , if Dorian wasn’t imagining it.

 

“...do you?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“But they’re about to set a bunch of great big fires outdoors, and hand out booze, and sing. You can’t want to miss that,” Dorian said, not giving any hint of how wildly his heart was beating in his chest.

 

“I do like getting drunk, singing in public, and setting things on fire,” Bull agreed, nodding, nonchalant for all the world except for the way he was looking _everywhere_ but at Dorian. “But I can manage to do those things more or less any day of the week.”

 

They regarded each other, Bull smiling, Dorian cataloging the way that smile tugged the rugged lines of Bull’s face into something unbearably handsome. Then he smiled back.

 

“Well, I’d be happy to impose myself upon you and your fireplace, but only if you allow me to pick up a decent vintage for us on the way.”

 

“Are you implying I wouldn’t have one lying around?”

 

Dorian made a frustrated noise through his nose.

 

“This is me being nice, just- let me, would you?”

 

“Sure,” Bull chuckled, and braced his hand against Dorian’s back, “go ahead.”

 

Bull took them to a store called the Hidden Vine, only a block away from one of the bonfire sites, and neither of them noticed the place emptying out or the sky going dark as they went down the opposite sides of aisles and attempted to one up each other. Dorian chose three bottles and Bull insisted on a carafe of rice wine and paying for the lot. They chatted as they walked toward Bull’s place, edging around their childhood memories of celebrations, volunteering glimpses of information as they did, staying close.

 

They passed a line of closed up stalls and caught sight of the bonfire from a distance. It was brilliantly yellow and cast the crowd around it into silhouette. Dorian stared at the flames until his eyes watered, and Bull gently nudged him with his elbow.

 

It was only a few more blocks of brownstones until Bull led Dorian up the well maintained stonework stair of a stately building. The foyer inside smelled old, but once they were up the flight of narrow wooden stairs and into the second story apartment, Dorian rather thought the place smelled like Bull. He wanted to relax into it, but the desire itself made him tense. At least Bull hadn’t been joking about the fireplace. The apartment only had a few rooms, but they were large, and though nothing in the place was new, it was clean. Bull dragged the sofa closer to the hearth and Dorian situated himself onto it quickly, trying not to appraise the place or lean into the fire Bull started _too_ obviously. Then he made loud observations about Bull’s decor and its tendency to incorporate pink in surprising and questionable ways while Bull fetched them glasses and returned with one of the bottles, and after they’d gone through a glass each Dorian gave up on trying to stop himself from thinking _It’s been a month since you kissed me_ over and over like a rather pathetic litany.

 

“I’m glad you came after me in the crowd,” Bull told him, and Dorian scooted forward in his seat, closer to the fire, to hide his shiver.

 

“There are so few faces that are familiar to me, here, I suppose I became over excited when I spotted one in public.”

 

“I’m an excitable guy.”

 

“You’re awful,” Dorian drawled, smiling, leaning away from Bull but managing to stay angled toward him.

 

“I like seeing you,” Bull said bluntly, and Dorian nearly tipped wine onto himself.

 

“I believe I’ve mentioned before how off-putting I find that sort of directness,” Dorian mumbled, and Bull grinned at him.

 

“Not in so many words. I can stop, though.”

 

“No,” Dorian said, “Bull, I-”

 

He drew his knees up, then realized how defensive that had to seem, and crossed his legs instead to rest his elbows on this thighs.

 

“I like it,” he said. His voice barely carried over the sound of the fire snapping behind the grate. Bull was still, listening closely.

 

“I like the flirting. I like… being around you. But I’m still very… it may not make much sense to you, or seem reasonable, but I’m still… made nervous by the idea of- of dating, of being seen with a man- or a qunari, as the case may be- in public. It isn’t something I ever gave much thought to.”

 

That last was a lie. Dorian had an extensive library of daydreams that involved being very public with another man, if not necessarily a qunari, doing the absolute dopiest of things such as holding hands or sharing bites of each other’s food.

 

“And even if no one in the South cares, I’m- You don’t know about my family, but-”

 

“I know about your family,” Bull said, and everything else in Dorian’s head stopped.

 

“Sorry, what?”  
  
“I know about your family. The political pull, the position on Seheron, your father’s well cultivated appearance of being a nice, moderate, approachable Magister. I know who your family is, Dorian.”

 

Dorian was very stiff, fingers cupped around his glass, spine rigid. His teeth ached from clenching and he forced himself to stop.

 

“...then you know who I was meant to become.”

 

“I’ve got an idea.”

 

Dorian felt weighted down: foolish, and slow. It meant he was silent for two full beats while the words sank in after Bull asked, “Do you worry you’re being watched?”

 

“Here? No. Sometimes,” Dorian amended. “...if I were, things could- the pair of us, being seen, it could bring some unpleasantness down on your head.”

 

“I’ve got a pretty hard head,” Bull told him, and closed his eye for an awkwardly long moment which, Dorian realized, was a wink.

 

“Bull, I don’t want- The last thing I’d want would be-”

 

Bull reached across the sofa to take Dorian’s hand, the one he had squeezed into a fist and curled into his lap. His fingers unfurled in Bull’s palm. The difference in size was alarming. And alluring.

 

“I can do discreet,” Bull said, “If you can do dinner.”

 

Dorian blinked at Bull and hiccuped a laugh before agreeing.

 

They finished two bottles of wine and ordered in, and kissed in the doorway when Dorian left for so long he forgot where (or why) he was going.

 

*

 

_Summerday Weekend is observed differently everywhere, at least in its specifics. Generally, it is hailed as the beginning of summer and the end of the cold, and is recognized with a three day weekend during which time the peoples of Thedas partake in their favorite outdoor activities, including boating, barbecuing, and, of course, copious imbibement of regional spirits. Many cities also celebrate with firework displays, Val Royeaux’s especially being heralded as the grandest, which has spurred port cities like Cumberland and Antiva City- even Redcliffe, overlooking Lake Calenhad- to increase their own displays in an ongoing, unspoken competition._

 

_*_

 

“Oh, _shit_ yeah!” Bull roared, and Dorian hid his smile against his upturned collar. The flight from Denerim to Jader had been barely two hours, and though they’d left cloaked in the mists of early morning, they had landed to clear, bright day, and the Waking Sea sparkled brilliantly before them everywhere it wasn’t dotted with big white boats.

 

Onesuch awaited them at the end of a long wooden pier. Madam de Fer was known in academic circles for her charity work with orphans and historical societies; less so with wayward disowned Tevinter Altis looking to make a grand gesture to their first ever boyfriend type person. It was Dorian’s phenomenal luck that Vivian _adored_ Bull. In the two months since they’d begun drinking wine and kissing in doorways, Bull had taken to meeting Dorian at the University some days, and on more than one occasion that meant he had come into contact with head of the foremost authority on political sciences both modern and antiquated. Dorian hadn’t known what to expect- some judgement for the dalliance, surely- but Vivienne had merely prompted him to encourage Bull to come by more frequently.

 

As a reward for Dorian’s excellent taste in dating material and his ability to continue producing exemplary work despite his constant, low-grade anxiety that he would somehow fuck it all up, she had offered him the use of her boat to watch the Summersday fireworks with Bull. Dorian had assumed it would have been some sort of cabin cruiser but it was, in fact, a sailboat. Not quite forty feet long, it was pristine white and had the name _Bastien_ stenciled in classic black script on the prow. They boarded and Bull began to climb over every inch of the ship like a small child being loosed on a particularly fancy jungle gym. Dorian took their bags below.

 

The cabin was beautifully decked out in a cherry wood and soft cream carpet he wouldn’t have expected, necessarily, from Madam de Fer. It was large for a sailboat- certainly large enough for Bull to be comfortable in.

 

The bed that took up most of the center of the space was also of a good size. And the only one there. Dorian left their bags by the door.

 

Bull, for his part, was happy as a seven foot tall horned clam. Summer was great. More work for the Chargers, longer days, and a lot more leeway in when and where he had to wear a shirt. Kicking things off on a luxury sailboat with his _person_ (Dorian had so far responded with apoplectic discomfort to any attempt to qualify them with a label, including: significant other, lover, fuckbuddy, special friend, friend with benefits, and, especially, _boy_ friend) seemed like one hell of an auspicious start to the season. He caught the top of Dorian’s artfully tousled head emerging from below decks in his peripheral vision. Lucky he’d come up on Bull’s right side.

 

“So I’m thinking, get breakfast in town, do a grocery run, then take this baby out on the water and get us a sweet spot to watch the fireworks from.”

 

“That might not be necessary. I’m sure we’ll have a perfectly spectacular view from here,” Dorian answered quickly. He was deeply grateful to Vivienne, obviously, and wouldn’t have rejected her offer under any circumstances, but there was the rather unfortunate, minutiae detail that Dorian got horrifically seasick. “Anyway, I’ve no idea how to work a sailboat. Do you know how to maneuver this thing alone?”

 

Bull chuckled, shaking his head as he left off his examination of the rigging and went to mirror Dorian’s lounging posture. The ‘Vint looked like he belonged right where he was. White jeans and a white button down, open to his sternum and rolled to his sleeves; crisp grey loafers. Bull had made a point, regularly did, to compliment Dorian on how put together he always was. He knew, now, that almost everything in the man’s wardrobe was carefully sourced from consignment shops around the city. He’d taken almost nothing with him when he’d left Tevinter. They’d only begun to scratch the surface of that conversation.

 

“Don’t tell me they didn’t teach you rigging at the Young Altus Yacht Club,” Bull said, and Dorian snorted a laugh.

 

“Breakfast sounds good.”

 

“Great,” Bull said, and reached a hand out to gently rub along Dorian’s bicep. “How are you feeling so far?”

 

Dorian canted his head to one side at the question.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean,” Bull said, “I know it can be a little anxiety-inducing, for you. This whole dating thing.  And, you know, it’s okay. But this is a step up, big guy. A weekend trip. On a boat. With a qunari.” Dorian laughed brightly and shook his head.

 

“Don’t be absurd, this is Orlais. If anything, _you_ should be worried to be seen cavorting with Imperitrash.” Bull laughed, and leaned down to land a kiss on Dorian’s cheek. He squeezed Dorian’s hip.

 

“I’d be more concerned about the ‘cavorting’ part than anything else.”

 

“Frolicking?” Dorian offered, and Bull snorted, straightening to his full height, and lightly smacked Dorian’s ass which got a delightfully undignified squawk out of him.

 

“Show you frolicking.”

 

“Not if you do that again,” Dorian warned, but when he sauntered for the gangplank, Bull noticed the extra swing in step and, probably more to the point, the way it pulled the fabric of Dorian’s white chinos.

 

Yeah, definitely auspicious.

 

They picked out the stores they’d stop in on their way to finding a breakfast spot, and the one they chose was a hole in the wall of a particularly weathered stucco building. There were plenty of waterfront, pier-side restaurants, but this one was up a hill, several blocks away, and its floor to ceiling paneled windows that opened to the street gave a more interesting, private view of the water, and the streets that led down to it. Bull liked that Dorian had spotted it and suggested they go in. The obvious assumption would have been that the ‘Vint would gravitate toward the glossier, more pristine establishments. The premium real estate. One of the many things that surprised Bull about Dorian was his tendency for affection to the less obvious.

 

Might explain something about what they were doing together, so many weeks in. Well, explain it beyond the incredible, mind-blowing sex, anyway.

 

They left the quiet cafe balanced pleasantly between sated and energized, and when Dorian leaned into Bull and tucked an arm across the back of his hips, it took a conscious effort of will for Bull not to make a big deal out of it. He merely slung his own arm around Dorian’s back and let his hand rest on the ‘Vint’s shoulder. He’d never thought so many little victories piling up could feel so good.

 

They turned a corner, straying from one cobbled street to another, out of the sun and into the shade, and Bull stopped walking. Dorian didn’t notice and faltered to a halt, glancing confusedly back up at Bull before trying to source the obstacle.

 

An elf in nondescript grey clothing, brown hair pushed back from his face, stood several yards down the street from them, near the open, dark doorway of an old walkup. He was as still as Bull, but not nearly so impassive.

 

“Thought you were in Denerim these days,” he said.

 

“Mostly,” Bull answered. “Thought you were in Rivain, Gatt.”

 

Dorian assumed that was his name. It didn’t sound like anything. _More onomatopoeia than proper noun,_ he thought.

 

“Your intel’s old,” Gatt sneered, and Dorian edged himself a little in front of Bull. It was a deeply absurd gesture to make, given their difference in size and, one assumed, combat readiness, but he did it all the same. The elf’s focus snapped to Dorian and the sneer deepened.

 

“Causing trouble?” Bull said, and the bass of it reverberated in Dorian’s ribs where he was pressed protectively up against Bull’s side.

 

“Me? Never,” Gatt said. “You, though.” He looked again at Dorian.

 

“Playing honeymoon with a disgraced magister. If I didn’t know you better, I’d question your motives.”

 

A prickle of unease worked its way down Dorian’s collar and spine into his gut. True, growing up the scion of a major political family had placed him in more than his fair share of tabloids and evening news coverage, but one of the perks of having abandoned his home for the South was no one there had read those tabloids, or seen those news segments, or gave a damn at all. Bull had told him very little of his life before defecting, but Dorian knew that this man, Gatt, had to have been a part of it.

 

“Ah, Curatorial Director, thank you,” Dorian spoke up. “I know everyone from the South thinks all Tevinters are Magisters, but that’s actually not the case.”

 

“Cute,” Gatt gritted out and, Bull squeezed Dorian’s shoulder gently, pulling him back a half step, but no further from Bull’s side.

 

“In town for the holiday?” he asked.

 

“Just on my way out,” Gatt replied.

 

“Be seeing you,” Bull said, tone angling _down_ , ringing with the stark promise of an unpleasant result if he did see Gatt again. He could tell the message was received. Finally, Gatt’s anger and disdain gave just enough for Bull to catch a glimpse of the regret.

 

“Not intentionally,” Gatt said, then turned and went down an alley, out of sight. Relief swelled in Bull’s chest and he breathed out. It had been happenstance, coincidence. The Ben-Hassrath weren’t keeping tabs beyond the way they generally did, but of all the damn people…

 

“...former colleague?” Dorian ventured, and the dryness made Bull wince. He offered Dorian a slight smile that might’ve been more like a grimace.

 

“As it happens.”

 

“Someone I should be concerned about?” Dorian’s tone was airy, but Bull knew better. Dorian was sharp, smart, and incredibly defensive. It was self preservation. Bull got that.

 

“No. A very, very former colleague.” Dorian was still rankled, but he was listening, at least. Bull could see the wheels turning, as Dorian decided whether or not to push.

 

“He’s spent time in Tevinter. Since we worked together. That’s how he knows you. That’s all,” Bull murmured, and rubbed Dorian’s back, hoping the gesture would soothe, not smother. Dorian relaxed into it, fractionally, and nodded.

 

“Let’s just… get back to the boat.”

 

“All right.”

 

The shopping was easy- they were only staying through the following afternoon- and they were back aboard with hours of daylight left. Things were tense, but that was to be expected. If Dorian had more questions, Bull was ready for that. He wasn’t about to jump start the barrage, however. They opened a bottle of champagne and sipped at it. Dorian stripped down to swim trunks and Bull appreciated the view for a while, eventually coaxing Dorian into letting Bull oil him up. Between capable hands and more graceless, obvious innuendos than Bull had ever crammed into a conversation in his life, he had Dorian relaxed and present again in no time, even offering to return the favor.

 

Dorian got Bull’s shoulders and the top of his head (ha, ha) and the upper planes of his chest before they ran out of tanning oil.

 

“Could take a break from the sun,” Bull murmured, hands rubbing circles low on Dorian’s hips, and they went below deck and everything that was past was completely forgotten in the perfect, aching immediacy of the present.

 

The evening featured an argument about whether or not they were actually taking the boat anywhere, and Dorian won that one by making it clear in no uncertain terms that if he was busy vomiting all night, his mouth would be unavailable for other, more enjoyable activities, and Bull couldn’t come up with a counter for that that wouldn’t have gotten him thrown overboard.

 

Bull brought blankets and throw pillows up from the cabin to make them a sort of nest among the benches in the cockpit. He noticed, not for the first time, Dorian looking especially distant. It happened any time he was still or quiet for too long. The stars were starting to come out, and he was, ostensibly, watching them. Bull went to stand behind him and reached out to run a knuckle down his spine. Dorian turned his head and smiled, and smiled more when Bull held up the fleecy, lightweight hoodie Dorian had brought along. He pulled it on as he followed Bull to where their supper of bread, cheese and fruit was waiting in a basket, but forewent grazing to climb practically into Bull’s lap once the man was seated.

 

“Hey there, ‘Vint,” Bull murmured, lifting a hand to sift his fingers through Dorian’s hair.

 

“Bull,” Dorian said softly, leaning into him and up, sliding his mouth along Bull’s jaw to the long-healed split in his lip. They kissed slowly, leant together, Bull’s arm wrapped easily around Dorian’s back, Dorian’s hands tucked on either side of Bull’s neck, thumbs moving in soothing strokes just beneath his ears.

 

“What that man- Gatt, what he said earlier-” Dorian said, sounding more shaken than he’d allowed himself to all day. Bull didn’t tighten his hold, though he wanted to- wanted to hold Dorian closer, make sure he couldn’t bolt, make sure he knew that Bull didn’t give two shits what anyone, from any corner of their lives, thought of them together.

 

“He was trying to push buttons. It was a load of shit-”

 

“I know,” Dorian said firmly. “I know it was. This isn’t… I don’t want to be… playing, at anything, with you.”

 

As vague as the words were, Bull understood Dorian was giving something away, here. Something he’d kept carefully guarded, for a long time.

 

“Neither do I,” Bull said.

 

“I’m _not_ playing at anything,” Dorian amended. “I don’t care what it looks like. What I look like. I want to be here, with you.”

 

Bull pressed his mouth to Dorian’s temple and hummed, letting the curve of his arm tighten, letting himself hold Dorian that much closer.

 

“Good. That’s good.”

 

They stayed in roughly that position through the fireworks display, though incrementally Dorian would shift under the pretense of getting comfortable, and eventually wound up nearly atop Bull, stretched out against his side as they both reclined, eyes turned upward. When the finale lit the sky up almost like daylight and the applause from the surrounding boats and parties camped out on blankets along the pier reached its zenith, Dorian caught Bull watching him instead of the show, and they were below deck before the last of the pyrotechnics had fizzled out to smoke.

 

That night, Dorian learned the word _katoh_ , but didn’t use it.

 

*

 

_All Soul’s Day has become a time for costumed revelry across most of Thedas. In Orlais and Nevarra, the celebrations are heavily influenced still by the national religion.  In the Avvar Territories and Tevinter, the celebrations have more codified ceremonies involved and reflect cultures that had long standing ties to a pantheon. Everywhere else, All Soul’s tends to be celebrated over the course of a single evening, with an emphasis on dressing up and having fun._

 

*

 

All Soul’s was peculiar in the South. It was just a party night, really, a reason to get dressed in outlandish costumes and get drunk. Dorian rather liked it.

 

The event had been mostly Lissar’s idea, though Josephine had presented it to sponsors and designed the look and feel. The Chargers had been too happy to aid the hotel in some slight renovations and additions, and Leliana had extended invitations to a number of incredible headliners. No one knew how she knew them and she refused to say, but Josephine had been happy to start the rumor that, at one point and under a different name, Leliana had been a teenage pop sensation in Orlais. Regardless of the source of her connections, they had provided, and Skyhold would host what Lissar insisted would be the classiest party in town. Sera had demanded a definition of classy, and it had taken a little work to get her to concede on the assless chaps portion of her costume, but once a compromise was reached she was on board.

 

The traditional Funalis garb was a bit much for a regular night out at the club, but for an All Soul’s Ball being held in Skyhold’s renowned atrium, it was appropriate. Dorian had made several concessions to modern times and Fereldan weather- like pants- but the rest of the ceremonial robes were true to custom. Sleeveless, folded across his torso left to right, bound with several layers of wide brocade and leather belts. The black cloth swallowed the light, save where it was embroidered with a different black thread that made the serpent pattern glimmer like oil slick. Gold chains dipped around his shoulders and coiled artfully around his wrists and neck. The kohl around his eyes was thick and gently smudged, the gold dust powdered across his brow, nose and cheekbones too subtle to spot from afar, but whenever Dorian tilted his face toward a light, he seemed to glow, as though he were cast in bronze.

 

The entire point of the get up was to make Bull forget how to talk. For good measure, Dorian smeared some of the gold powder along the bow of his lower lip and, not that it would be visible to anyone _but_ Bull, later in the evening, on each nipple. The lining of the robe could be cleaned, after all.

 

He met Cassandra and Liss in the lobby of Varric’s building, which was on the way, and gave Dorian the unexpected gift of asking Varric what references he’d used to put together his magnificent Puss in Boots costumes, which Varric insisted was a pirate king. Cassandra was in a noticeably brighter mood for the banter and got her own crack in about the abundance of ginger fur on display, but then they were at the piazza that sat in front of Skyhold, where Cullen was waiting dressed like an actual lion, and Varric got the last laugh.

 

It was frustrating to find himself in a situation where Dorian kept thinking he’d spotted Bull, only to find it was someone’s elaborate get up. Even moreso, that embracing the spikier aspects of his Tevinter heritage seemed to afford him a great deal of attention from a good many party goers that, some six months earlier, he would have been all too thrilled to take advantage of. He’d been cornered at the bar by a man in a truly splendid bird costume, either a crow or a raven, who had the silkiest voice Dorian had ever heard (aided by a charming Antivan accent), and Dorian couldn’t even appreciate it.

 

That, and the flirtation and innuendo were _far_ too smooth.

 

“I must admit, Mister Tevinter,” the corvid drawled, “I have enjoyed our chat immensely. You are one of the handsomest men in the room, to be sure, if no longer the… _pointiest_.” He set his empty glass down and flashed Dorian a handsome smile.

 

“I believe I have spotted the person I was looking for across the room. And I believe the person you have been looking for has spotted you.” He nodded slightly over Dorian’s shoulder and slipped away, though Dorian was already turning.

 

Bull’s skin looked like polished silverite. He was wearing ridiculous trousers that Dorian imagined must have been purchased at some sort of male stripper warehouse, because they were imprinted with some kind of scale, too big to be a faux snakeskin, and they were irridescent. If Bull weren’t quite so dark and quite so imposing, with the harness and gauntlets, and the- Maker preserve him- _wings_ , he would looking nothing so much like he belonged on the biggest, gothest float in the biggest, most glamorous gay pride parade ever held.

 

“You’re a dragon,” Dorian observed despairingly, as Bull swaggered through the crowd toward him.

 

“I’m a dragon!” Bull boomed, then leaned down, bringing his hands immediately to encircle Dorian’s waist, and nuzzled at his jaw.

 

“And you are a knockout. Damn, Dorian.”

 

“Keep pawing at me and I’ll show you ‘knockout’,” Dorian smirked. Bull just laughed and leaned against the bar, keeping his hands on Dorian even as he nodded to catch the bartender’s attention.

 

“Sounds fun. Maybe later.”

 

“Brute,” Dorian murmured, leaning into Bull’s bulk, feeling, finally, at ease. He rested his cheek against Bull’s bare shoulder for a moment, and enjoyed the faint smear of gold dust left there when he drew back again to accept the drink Bull’d ordered for him.

 

“You didn’t grow up with this particular observance, I take it?” Dorian asked.

 

“Nah, not a lot of time spent mourning the dead in a culture that believes in the cyclical oneness of all things. You ‘Vints make a big deal out of it, right?”

 

“We do indeed. Given the importance of one’s ancestry, you can imagine a fair amount of emphasis is given to holidays honoring ancestors.”

 

“Makes sense, in a screwy kind of ‘Vint way.”

 

“Now, now, darling, let’s leave off the cultural differences for a night and simply enjoy things the Southern way.”

 

“Haphazardly and with booze?” Bull clarified.

 

“Just so,” Dorian laughed, and they tipped their glasses together and drank.

 

Bull had ordered them sambuca, a single espresso bean floating in each, the traditional drink of the Tevinter All Soul’s feast. The taste sent an unexpected rush of homesickness through Dorian, but he swallowed it down nonetheless, and recognized it for what it was: Bull making an offering. He waited for the qunari to drop his glass from his lips before pulling his head down, and Dorian kissed him deeply and unashamedly in the middle of the crowd.

 

The party was a good one. Everyone danced. Bull let the Chargers pull him away for a celebratory round and Dorian went to catch his breath on the mezzanine balcony with Vivienne, where they had an ideal position from which to cast judgement upon the worst dressed. It was all rather delightful.

 

“My dear, if you’ll excuse me. I’m afraid I see a colleague who needs chastising.” Vivienne drifted toward the grand staircase and Dorian watched, amused, eager to see exactly who it was that warranted Vivienne’s particularly cool brand of ire, when he sensed a presence at his back.

 

Dorian turned from the balcony and saw a lithe figure in what could only be described as _generic costume_ leaning against a decorative pillar. Dorian couldn’t have said what he was dressed as, only that he was in costume. Other than being an elf, he was totally nondescript.

 

“Gatt,” Dorian said, the name sitting on his tongue like a lead weight. He had trusted Bull, that their run-in with his former comrade had been coincidental. This time, it surely was not.

 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Gatt replied, an unpleasant smugness curling around his words.  

 

“What do you want?” Dorian demanded, foregoing any glibness or wordplay, though he excelled at both and enjoyed weaponizing them.

 

“You really do think an awful lot of yourself, don’t you?” Gatt said. “I’m not here for you. Or him.”

 

“Another _coincidence_?” Dorian asked, hissing the word with all the derision and skepticism he could muster.

 

“If you believe in those, sure. They do seem to be going round. Look at you and _Iron Bull_. That was his code name when he was working down here. Kept it when he abandoned the Qun. Did he tell you what name he had the longest?”

 

Gatt walked in a slow semi-circle, eyes never leaving Dorian, who remained utterly still and kept his face a mask of boredom.

 

“It was Hissrad,” Gatt went on, undeterred. “You should ask him what it means. Not that you’d know if he was telling the truth. See, you two have an awful lot in common. You’re both selfish, you’ve both turned your backs on the ones who raised you. It was these people-” Gatt nearly spat the word, “-that turned him, weakened his resolve and his dedication until he was as lost and blind as they are. But you? Running away so you could play house with whoever you wanted? You were weak to being with. You must enjoy finally fitting in.”

 

“If that’s all,” Dorian drawled, angling one eyebrow upward. His stomach was churning but it could wait. He had to find Bull, tell him Gatt was there, tell him they had a bonafide _problem_ that needed addressing. He broke away from the railing in anticipation of moving to the stairs.

 

“Oh, yes, don’t let me prevent you from enjoying the party. _Manes exeti paterni_ , eh, Pavus?”

 

Dorian froze mid step. Something in Gatt’s tone, the genuine pleasure in his smile, compounded Dorian’s sense of unease.

 

“Don’t pretend,” Gatt scoffed. “Out drinking the night away, dressed like that, with your father on his deathbed? If that’s not classic Altus behavior, I don’t know what is.” He seemed to notice the change in Dorian and tilted his head to one side, eyes going mocking round.

 

“Unless… you didn’t know?”

 

“Liar,” Dorian shuddered out, and Gatt’s smile widened.

 

“If you like. Don’t take my word for it. Call home and find out, if you can stomach your pride enough to manage it.”

 

“Fuck you,” Dorian spat.

 

“Pleasure seeing you again,” Gatt said, as Dorian turned on his heel and started hurriedly down the staircase.

 

It wasn’t easy finding a quiet corner from which to make a phone call, so Dorian fled into the cold evening without his coat, phone pressed tight to his ear. Given the night, she might not answer, Maker only knew of all the holidays this one actually _mattered_ to her, but-

 

“Dorian.” Maeveris sounded breathless and confused, and Dorian would have felt relief but there was so much yet to get through before he might.

 

“Mae, is my father ill?”

 

“What? Dorian, it’s been weeks since I’ve had word from you, and now-”

 

“ _Mae_ ,” Dorian interrupted, desperate, “I know, and I’m sorry, but please tell me, if-”

 

“Dorian.” Maeveris sounded suddenly much more herself. “My love, I need you to breathe, and calm yourself. Magister Pavus has been absent from proceedings in Minrathous for some weeks, but I’ve not heard one word of it being due to ill health.” There was a pause, and Dorian held his breath.

 

“Though it… might account for his absence. There have been important matters being heard on the floor, several of which the Archon postponed, I thought until, perhaps, your father was present to cast his vote. Dorian-”

 

“Thank you, Mae. I’ll call again soon.” Dorian hung up, staring at the screen of his phone with an unsettling feeling of blankness. The number he needed wasn’t saved in his contacts, but he thumbed it in from memory. It rang to the point he would have expected the voice mail to pick up, but the voice that came on wasn’t a recording.

 

“Yes,” it said, and all the breath nearly left Dorian’s body in a rush.

 

“Mother,” he said, knowing _she knew_ it was him, had to have known or else she wouldn’t have answered herself. There were house staff for that.

 

“Dorian,” his mother said. “So, you’ve heard. Was it Magister Tilani? She always did overreach.”

 

“Is he ill?” Dorian demanded, though she’d all but just confirmed it.

 

“In a manner of speaking. It would seem your father has quite passed the point of illness, and is-” Her voice hitched so slightly Dorian barely caught it.

 

“-dying.”

 

Dorian did not sink to his knees, or sob, or do anything so dramatic. He merely stood, the sounds of the party distant behind him, the sounds of the city muffled before him. Nothing felt quite real. He was untethered.

 

“...how long?” he asked, sounding nothing so much as subdued.

 

“It’s impossible to say,” his mother told him. That seemed like code for _soon_.

 

“Very well,” Dorian said.

 

“...Dorian, are you-”

 

“I will keep you informed of my progress. If you have any blocks in place on my ability to travel across the border, now would be the time to remove them. Goodnight, mother.”

 

Dorian waited until she said _goodnight_ before he ended the call.

 

He was going home. He didn’t want to go home. He had to go home.

 

“Everything all right, ‘Vint?”

 

Bull had found himself edging toward worried, once Dorian’s noticeable absence had reached the fifteen minute mark. The sight of him standing on the steps of Skyhold’s grand lobby, phone in hand, not so much as shivering in the considerable early-autumn bite, made Bull feel deeply uneasy. Dorian turned his head a little until Bull was, he assumed, in Dorian’s periphery, but that was all. Dorian didn’t seem inclined to turn and face him, fully.

 

“...Dorian, what’s going on?”

 

“I have to go,” Dorian said. His voice dragged in his throat, rough. Bull wanted to reach out and stroke his fingertips along the line of it, to soothe whatever emotion Dorian was choking on.

 

“You need a lift?”

 

“No-” Dorian laughed entirely without mirth, more a breathless gust of breath than anything. “No, Bull, I- I have to _go._ I have to go back.”

 

“...To Tevinter,” Bull said, trying not to grind the word out, trying to say it neutrally. “Don’t.”

 

So much for neutral.

 

“Bull, I have to,” Dorian said, finally turning and closing the distance between them- but not all the way. Over four months of careful give and take, Bull had been gratified to find Dorian increasingly, insatiably tactile. Maybe it was all those years of holding himself apart, being afraid to reach out to anyone, or trust them, but now that he allowed himself, Dorian was a goddamn grade A _cuddler_ , no matter how vehemently he’d deny it.

 

The scant two feet of distance left between them spoke volumes.

 

“You don’t,” Bull said. “You don’t owe anyone anything.”

 

“This is a family matter, Bull,” Dorian said, increasingly distressed, which translated, as ever, to anger. “You cannot possibly grasp the intricacies.”

 

“Fuck the intricacies,” Bull growled. “They hurt you. They’ll do it again. Don’t give them the chance.”

 

“I wouldn’t even know to leave if your old friend hadn't been here to tell me. Did he not say ‘hello’ on his way out?” Dorian was deflecting, and not even well, but Bull pulled back all the same, stunned.

 

“...Gatt?”

 

“Yes, he only seemed too thrilled to deliver the news. I assumed he was lying but my mother and another considerably more trusted source just confirmed it.”

 

Bull shook his head slowly, piecing the night together, trying to feel out what the angle could be. Why would Gatt have even been there?

 

Dorian’s breathing quieted and he swallowed, and one of his hands clenched briefly, a compulsive gesture Bull had noticed Dorian made when he was forcing himself to say or do something he’d likely soon regret. It didn’t help Bull brace for what came next.

 

“What does Hissrad mean?”

 

Bull took a breath through his nose, centering himself, before he met Dorian’s gaze. It wasn’t quite accusatory- he didn’t know what he was accusing Bull _of_ . _Thanks, Gatt_ , Bull thought, _you shifty, spiteful little bastard._

 

“What does it matter? It’s behind me. Just like that place is behind you. Dorian. Sweetheart, look at me.”

 

Dorian was strung piano wire tight. His eyes were suspiciously reflective. He’d begun to shiver in earnest, but Bull suspected it was from the effort of holding himself together more than the cold.

 

“I want to be here, with you. That’s all I want. That’s all we wanted. Right?” Bull took a step forward, and held his hand out. “Come inside, get warm, be with your friends. I’ll… answer any questions you have, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Tomorrow. Come on.”

 

Dorian fixated on Bull’s hand, the lines crossing the palms, the truncated fingers. His phone was warm against his own palm. Maeveris would be honoring her husband, missing him. His mother would be making an offer at the family’s private temple. If his father was ill, they were probably both at the Quarinus estate.

 

Bull’s apartment waited, warm and familiar and safe, on the other side of a party filled with his friends and his colleagues, ones he’d earned, made his without favor or prestige. His Southern life was in front of him, the life he had so badly wanted without ever knowing how much, and the one he’d abandoned loomed over him, crouched at his heels. He lifted his face to look Bull over, and after a moment, he stepped past the offered hand, reached up to cup Bull’s face, and kissed him firmly, almost chastely.

 

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said, lowering back down to his heels.

 

“Dorian,” Bull murmured, “stay.”

 

 _If anyone could make me,_ Dorian thought, and the knowledge made his chest and throat feel unbearably tight. If he allowed it, Bull would keep him there, the way Dorian so desperately wanted to be kept.

 

But there was more to life than what Dorian wanted.

 

“Katoh,” he whispered, hating himself. The gamut of emotions that moved across Bull’s face, from surprise to hurt to a truly devastating sort of resignation, threatened to undo Dorian entirely. He stepped back, and Bull said nothing.

 

_You say that, and that’s it. I stop. No questions asked. All right? Say it for me._

 

 _Katoh,_ Dorian had said, nodding, and Bull had praised him, and then pulled him apart into a thousand desperate, wanting pieces, and then just as thoroughly, carefully put him together again. Dorian hadn’t considered uttering the word once, not once in the ten weeks since he’d learned it.

 

Dorian turned and hurried for the street, leaving Bull reeling and unmoored on Skyhold’s steps.

 

*

 

_Did you know Yuletide used to be a celebration dedicated to Zazikel, one of the primitive Tevinter Gods? Almost no one does. Everyone thinks it was inspired by Satina (hence the old name, Satinalia), but that’s highly revisionist. And quite rude- why does one of our moons warrant a yearly party and the other not? That’s the Chantry for you, though. Revisionist and rude. I suppose I ought to be careful what I write, lest the powers that be opt not to allow me back into the country. I am making my way back, as it happens. In time for Satinalia, probably. I’m sorry to be so brief, here, and I’m sorry to have communicated so little, with everyone, since I left.  There isn’t an excuse, really, I know that. All I can say is, my family matters have been settled, and with them done I found myself faced with a choice, which I have made. I hope to see you soon, Liss, you and everyone else. I hope I may even earn your forgiveness. And everyone else’s. Anyway, I’ll keep you posted on my progress. Let me know if you want a souvenir from any of the airports between Quarinus and home._

 

_-D_

 

*

 

The holidays were always a good reminder to be grateful for friends. Family could be iffy as both a concept and as a reality, Bull had found, but friends- those were solid. At least, his were. It was a little unfortunate they were all so easy to read, but he wouldn’t have traded even Cole’s clumsy attempts at making him feel better for anything. There was an endless list of things everyone needed his help with, from stringing lights to hauling wood. Varric was writing a serial for the _Fereldan Fantasy Quarterly_ and needed advice on ancient Qunari culture. Cassandra needed a dummy for the last of her self-defense classes before the holiday break (“The bigger the better”, she put it, and hadn’t been kidding). Lissar was the only one to pull him aside one day and drag him to coffee, to ‘chat about the holiday,’ the weekend before Satinalia.

 

“Dorian thinks he’ll be back in Fereldan soon. I told him his invitation to Josie’s party stands. He didn’t respond.”

 

Bull nodded and said nothing. After the first two weeks of boggled upset, everyone had more or less given up on broaching the subject. He was technically on leave from the University, not fired from his position (nor, Bull had noted, had he quit outright). Krem had obviously been torn between slandering his best friend and employer’s ex, and trying to explain how big a deal a dying Magister with a runaway heir was, at least in the eyes of other Magisters. No one was happy, but no one could seem to summon up the sort of anger and _good riddance_ attitude they usually did with a boyfriend or girlfriend who had, to put it indelicately, shat the bed with the group by hurting one of their member.

 

Dorian had been one of their member. The junior, perhaps, but one all the same. He was missed. So when they couldn’t summon the ire to say anything mean about him, and they couldn’t stomach trying to justify his absence in the face of Bull’s broken heart, they’d all more or less shut up about it and tried to get on with life.

 

Bull had encouraged that, had done what the could to help. It was his broken heart, after all. He didn’t need anyone else hurting on his behalf.

 

“Will you be all right?” Liss prompted. “If he shows up? ...Do you want him to show up?”

 

Bull sighed, digging a knuckle across the knot of scar tissue just above his eyepatch.

 

“I don’t know,” he told her. “I miss him. But he seemed… pretty final about it. If he shows up, I’ll be friendly. I won’t sulk, or stalk out, or make a scene. You know that’s not my style.”

 

“And you won’t let Skinner stab him?”

 

“I won’t let Skinner stab him.”

 

Lissar sighed and sank back against the window, cupping her mocha both hands, looking forlorn and a little stressed.

 

“I’ll let you know, if he writes again.”

 

“All right,” Bull said.

 

“I think I’m going to propose to Cullen,” Liss added and Bull snorted his chai. It stung like a son of a bitch.

 

The day of Josie’s annual holiday party, Bull bought a plain green cardigan from a second hand shop on his way there. He hoped no one would comment on the absence of his traditional magenta-nug sweater.

 

The party was warm and noisy in a pleasant way. Bull stood by the tree with Krem, laughing as Sera surreptitiously moved ornaments from their boughs to his horns, until Josephine noticed and rushed over to replace them all. It was a good night, if a cold one, and as the streetlamps came on, a gentle flurry started.

 

“Nice,” Sera said, “more snow. Might get enough to make some proper angels, yeah?”

 

“Or build some real snowmen,” Bull pointed out, and Sera snickered to herself.

 

“Carrots,” she muttered, grinning, ducking her head to peer out at the street. Something caught her eye and sent her recoiling back, blinking with rapid confusion, before she leaned back in again, shoving Josephine’s drapes to the side and all but shoving her face up against the glass.

 

“Oh shitting what the shit,” she yelped. “Is that Dorian?”

 

The conversation ground to a stilted halt. Lissar pushed her way to the window beside Sera, cupping a hand to block the glare of the lights behind her.

 

“He came,” she breathed, and looked up at Bull. _Everyone_ was looking at Bull, actually. Not that he cared. Bull reached a hand out and carefully pushed the curtain nearest him to one side. Standing under the streetlamp nearest Josephine’s walkway, looking a bit disheveled and awfully cold, was Dorian. He had clearly been there for at least a minute, judging by the snow on his shoulders. He was looking at Josephine’s door, misery and trepidation writ clear across his face. A large canvas bag sat in the snow at his feet.

 

“All right,” Bull murmured. “Okay.”

 

He walked through the party to the front door, squared himself for a moment, then opened it and stepped out into the evening. There was a muffled clamor behind him as everyone present hurried to gather around the front window and try to see past the tree. Bull didn’t shut the door, just took the three steps down the front stoop to put him on the walkway Dorian stood, frozen, at the end of.

 

“...Hello,” Dorian said, and winced at himself. Bull only nodded.

 

“Happy Yuletide. You coming inside?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Dorian answered, sounding vexed. Bull could tell it was genuine.

 

“Well, door’s open, and I’m pretty sure you were invited.”

 

“Yes,” Dorian said. “Bull, I-”

 

“You don’t have to do this here,” Bull told him, cutting him off. Dorian was still for a long moment, before he began to shake his head.

 

“No, I do. I absolutely do. I owe you that. I think I… owe us both. Bull, I’m so sorry. For how I left. Not that I did- I needed to. But I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t want to, would never want to, only I’m quite good at fucking up the things I want, so it’s… hardly a surprise that I did.”

 

Bull didn’t frown, or comment. He wondered how much the folks inside could hear. He wondered exactly where Dorian was _going_ with this. Or if they’d ever have a conversation again without Bull’s heart hurting in his chest.

 

“I miss you,” Dorian said, still rooted to the spot, gaze unwavering, “terribly. You’d become my best friend, you _are_ my… best friend. That may sound naive. It’s true, though, isn’t it? Bull, you are everything I had never let myself admit to wanting. Compassionate, and brave. You’re everything I never let myself admit to aspiring to be, actually.”  The laugh that escaped him was painfully self-deprecating. Bull didn’t let himself react.

 

“The truth is, I… I missed my life here, when I was back there. But more than anything else, I missed you. Being near you. I know I haven’t the right, but I was hoping you might, if you were so inclined, that you might… give me another chance.”

 

The silence that stretched between them seemed unnaturally thick, but, Bull figured, that was probably the fault of the increasing snowfall. There was no sound, either, from the house behind him. He tilted his face up into the flurry for a moment, breathing in deep, then padded over the fresh powder to stop an arm’s length from Dorian.

 

“...you’re freezing, aren’t you?” he said and Dorian huffed.

 

“I’m so fucking cold.”

 

Bull lifted an arm and, after a moment’s frozen incomprehension, Dorian all but flung himself under it, wrapping his arms around Bull’s chest as far as he could, and holding on as tightly. Bull wrapped him up and bowed his head down. Dorian’s hair was slightly damp from snowmelt.

 

A clamor of cheers went up from inside the house, and Bull grinned. He could make out Krem’s voice among them.

 

“You know, that was a pretty good apology. I didn’t know you knew how to make those.”

 

“You could be gracious about it, you know,” Dorian protested through chattering teeth, and Bull kissed his temple as he leaned down a little to scoop up the bag Dorian had left in the snow.

 

“ _Could_ be,” Bull agreed. “Probably not gonna. Come on, let’s get you warm.”

 

Dorian nodded, but didn’t stop clinging to Bull’s cardigan, and then they turned to walk inside together, Bull caught the glint of a tear track on the man’s cheek.

 

Inside, Lissar was the first to push in for a hug, but Sera was next. There was a good deal of commotion as they worked their way through the crowd and back to the kitchen, where Krem greeted Dorian by offering him a mug of hot cider and a light clap on the shoulder.

 

“Good on you,” he said. “Not easy to walk away.”

 

“It isn’t,” Dorian agreed, “but you did. And he did. So the example was rather set.”

 

Krem looked equally bemused and pleased to be an _example_ to an Altus, but flashed Bull a grin and left them to it, returning out to the living room.

 

The fact that it was just the pair of them back there wasn’t accidental. Bull was again grateful for their friends’ transparent concern. Dorian seemed to be thawing, fingers no longer tremoring against the porcelain, teeth making no noise at all, and for all that he had been a nervous wreck on the sidewalk, seemed infinitely calmer, now. Bull wondered if it was a byproduct of being in his presence. He knew he felt at ease in a way he hadn’t since the night Dorian had left.

 

“How you doing, ‘Vint?”

 

“I’m tired,” Dorian admitted. “It was a long trip back. I’m glad it’s over. That part of it, anyway.”

 

He looked up Bull through his lashes, almost shy, but not playing the coquette. Bull reached out and smoothed his palm along Dorian’s cheek.

 

“We’ll go the rest of the way together.”

 

Dorian turned his face against Bull’s hand, enough that he could hide a little, but quickly gave it up. He set his mug aside and reached up to put his arms around Bull’s neck, fresh tears caught in his lashes, and Bull tucked his arms around Dorian’s waist and held him close.

 

“I missed you, too,” he murmured against Dorian’s hair. “I forgive you, all right? It’s okay, we’re gonna be okay.”

 

Dorian nodded, breathing shakily, and they stayed that way for the space of several breaths.

 

“Bull,” Dorian whispered, pulling back just enough to turn his head and nose a kiss to the corner of Bull’s mouth.

 

“ _Bull_ ,” he said again, and pressed their foreheads together, crowding Bull as well as he could, and Bull kissed him a little harder, a little deeper, as it sunk in that they were real, the pair of them, together.

 

_This is real._

 

“Shh, it’s alright.” Bull dragged his mouth over the plan of Dorian’s cheekbone, nosing at him, cupping his face. “It’s alright, _kadan_ , we’re here, now. Right where we want to be. Right?”

 

Dorian released a shaky breath, fingers curving over Bull’s wrists not to tug them away but just to feel them, stroked up over the backs of Bulls hands to his knuckles and held his hands just where they were.

 

“Yes,” Dorian said softly, gathering himself. “Yes, precisely.”

 

They stood quietly, leaning into each other, exchanging brief kisses, until Dorian felt steady enough to straighten up. He sighed deeply, and Bull wondered what he was letting go of.

 

“Happy Yuletide, Bull,” Dorian said, smiling, reaching up to trail his fingertips along the lines of Bull’s mouth, to skirt them just beneath Bull’s lashes. Bull smiled back.

 

“...what does _kadan_ mean?” Dorian muttered, distracted as the word finally caught up with him. Bull chuckled and tilted his head to kiss Dorian’s thumb.

 

“I’ll tell you soon.”

 

“In the morning, perhaps?” Dorian said, and Bull’s eyebrows lifted. Dorian had the trepidatious look back, but there was a stronger presence of _hope_ in it this time.

 

“That could work,” Bull nodded.

 

“I want to go home with you,” Dorian said. “I want to wake up with you. I don’t- I don’t want to be apart from you, anymore.”

 

“Oh,” Bull answered, feeling a little dumb for just realizing that was _exactly_ what he wanted, too. “Okay. Yeah. Me neither.”

 

“Oh,” Dorian said, beaming, “good then.”

 

They kissed until Sera berated them into rejoining the party, which they did happily, even if they didn’t stay long.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously this is a somewhat amorphous AU in the sense of like... what year is it? Where is everything happening? WTF is going on here? 
> 
> And basically the answers is IDK, I guess I was thinking of Denerim as being a bit like NYC, and it's like now-times, whoever knows what the hell that'd be called, and just, look at them kissing, just go read the kissing, get off my lawn.


End file.
